


Just the Tips

by nematode



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Late 90s, M/M, Wholesome, mostly just some good old banter and flirting, this is very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 12:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19475935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nematode/pseuds/nematode
Summary: Crowley's hair was a frazzled, unnaturally blonde mess that had clearly been fried beyond repair. Aziraphale was fairly sure that the green tint to it was not just a trick of the light.“It's... not so bad.”“It'shideous.”“It sort of looks like mine?” Aziraphale said while stepping forward to get a better look.“Yes, well, it looks good onyou.”---Crowley asks for Aziraphale's help fixing a dye-job gone wrong AKA the origin story of how Aziraphale accidentally invents frosted tips.





	Just the Tips

Aziraphale woke up to a blaring version of “Somebody to Love” that sounded like it was recorded underwater and then transcribed by pressing random buttons on a computer until it _vaguely_ resembled the garbled melody.

He appreciated the new cell phone Crowley had forcefully gifted him. He did not appreciate the somehow-unchangeable ringtone.

“Hello?” He answered, after fumbling the phone open. Crowley had insisted it was the latest evolution in technology, that the battery life was one of the greatest achievements of humanity yet. Aziraphale thought it resembled a banana.

“Angel! Oh, thank hell you picked up.”

Aziraphale should have known Crowley would have been the only one to call him at that hour of the night. Everyone else either didn't have his number or had a baseline level of good manners.

“I thought I silenced this thing,” Aziraphale mumbled, rubbing his eyes open.

“Eh, I may have made some – alterations, to the design.” Aziraphale let out a weary sigh and waited for whatever it was that Crowley inevitably had up his sleeve. “Wait, were you _sleeping?_ Since when did you sleep? That's my thing.”

“What did you need, Crowley?”

“I need you to come over.”

The urge to hang up the phone and take its battery out tugged at Aziraphale, but he resisted, instead just clicking his tongue. “Listen, I do thank you for the phone, but it doesn't give you the right to just call me in the middle of the night whenever you're... _bothered_.”

“Oh please, it's not that, you gutter-minded angel. Though it has been a while.”

“You must forgive me for not believing you.”

“I need a miracle,” Crowley demanded.

“Do you? The last time you _needed_ a miracle, it was to refill that hundred year old wine you'd 'accidentally' drank in the bath.”

“ _Please._ ”

The sudden hush in volume was enough to give Aziraphale pause. It couldn't possible have been _that_ urgent, considering how long it took the demon to get to the point. And yet, Aziraphale's heart, curse that thing, jerked at the desperation scratching through Crowley's voice. He clutched at it, trying to will some strength into the poor temptable thing.

“Fine. I'm not coming over there though.”

“Why not? I can't leave like this.” Like – _what_? Aziraphale marveled at how quickly he came to regret agreeing to help Crowley this time. It was nearly a record.

“ _You_ are the one with the car.”

“Oh please, just take a cab.”

“How much do you truly need this miracle?”

Aziraphale heard a low mixture of grumbling, curses, and even a hiss through the grainy phone speaker, before Crowley spat out: “ _Fine_. What kind of angel doesn't even offer delivery in this day and age?”

“See you soon, Crowley.”

* * *

Aziraphale opened the door with his body already turned to the side, expression kept completely nonchalant as Crowley barreled through the entrance of his shop. Crowley wore the same dark shades as always, except he also now had a dark hood pulled over his head and a hunch to his shoulders that gave him a particularly up-to-no-good look.

“Hello, Crowley.”

“I need you not to laugh,” Crowley said as he thrust a bony finger to Aziraphale's chest.

“I – what is this about?”

“Don't. Laugh.”

Crowley paced back and forth twice, before leaning against the shelves with a dramatic collapse of limbs and sighs that reminded Aziraphale of a particularly bad performance of Macbeth he'd once seen. With one last curse, Crowley jerked the hood down, head kept pointed to the side.

“Oh.” To Aziraphale's credit, he only snickered. Far from a laugh.

Crowley's hair was a frazzled, unnaturally blonde mess that had clearly been fried beyond repair. Aziraphale was fairly sure that the green tint to it was not just a trick of the light.

“It's... not so bad.”

“It's _hideous_.”

“It sort of looks like mine?” Aziraphale said while stepping forward to get a better look.

“Yes, well, it looks good on _you_.”

Aziraphale's whole body pulled back into a straight line, as if a car had just sped through a puddle and doused him in a cool spray of water. Crowley kept his head to the side, and under those glasses it was impossible to tell where he was looking, but Aziraphale's skin prickled like it was under the gaze of a snake.

Had Crowley even realized he'd accidentally paid him a compliment? He must not have – Aziraphale had to assume he'd be steaming in fury and spitting some insults to balance it out if the thought crossed his mind.

“Well, thank you,” he said anyway.

“Just fix this.”

“Can you not just dye it back?”

“Look at it!” Crowley howled. “It's like... straw. Straw that a cow has already digested and spat back out.”

“Oh, well that's – gross.” Aziraphale's nose crinkled at the thought, even if it wasn't a completely inaccurate description.

“Ugh, cows. Not one of God's greatest creations, eh?”

“You say that now, but you still won't take your coffee black.”

Crowley rolled his head in a small circle, which Aziraphale had seen enough times to know it was his way of letting the world know he was rolling his eyes behind those shades.

“Is this _truly_ worth a miracle?” Aziraphale asked.

“I can't show myself like this!” Crowley's hands shot up, knocking the books around behind him. “I'll have to hide away for – for _at least_ a year.”

“That's not too bad.”

“What about our reservations on Friday?”

Oh. They had managed to get in at that new French place across town – the one with the impossibly flakey pastries and the lamb that practically melted on the tongue. It would certainly be a _shame_ to have to cancel.

“Well... fine. I suppose that one little miracle won't hurt.”

Crowley's shoulders finally dropped their hunch. Aziraphale gestured over to the leather armchair in the corner, which Crowley sauntered over to before sprawling across it, legs swung over the armrest.

“Welcome to salon Aziraphale then. Would you like a glass of water? A shoulder massage?”

Aziraphale moved over to stand behind Crowley, who just tugged at his hair. It really did look like he was gripping hay between his fingers. “I would like my hair returned to its former glory, and for _neither_ of us to ever speak of this again.”

“Why did you do – whatever this is, in the first place?”

“I thought it would – “ Crowley made frantic circles in the air with his hands, like he could summon the answer into being. “It's hip! Everyone's doing it. And, I will have you know, the box said it would be _platinum_. Platinum! Complete and utter _lies_.”

“Well, you could argue it's platinum. If the platinum got forgotten in the pool for several centuries.”

“Would you just _fix it_ already?”

“Alright, alright.” Aziraphale imagined greenish blonde fading back into chestnut and gathered that image's energy in his hands. Blue light swirled around the demon's head before fading away into smaller and smaller particles, leaving things just as they had been.

Well, almost.

“Oops. Looks like I'm all out of miracle.”

“You are _not_. What did you do?” Crowley sprung up and tried to yank his hair down into his vision, but even the longest strands barely reached his glasses.

“Well, you did need to learn your lesson, so...”

“Oh, you damn angel, what the hell did you do?” Crowley swiveled around until he spotted the ornate golden mirror in the corner and marched over to it, hands still entangled in his hair.

Aziraphale followed and peered over his shoulder into the reflection. Crowley's hair was back to its normal rich brown, like coffee with just a touch of cream. But the ends of each strand were left blonde (a more golden blonde – Aziraphale wasn't a demon after all), too much to cut off unless Crowley was planning to join the military, but still noticeably... just the tips.

Crowley's jaw slackened, left hanging as he stared into his own reflection. Aziraphale wished his new phone could somehow have a camera attached as well.

“See? It's like just a little... frosting of blonde.” Aziraphale realized his mind was maybe still too focused on the French pastries.

“Oh _fuck yeah_.” Crowley started combing his fingers through his hair in a wild frenzy, like he was rubbing the belly of a hyperactive dog. He scrunched the ends between his thumb and index finger, leaning in until his nose was almost touching the mirror. “That is _so_ cool.”

“Wait, no, that wasn't the poi – “

“This,” Crowley said as he sprung out of the chair, making Aziraphale jump back. “ _This_ is the new big thing.”

Aziraphale sighed. _He_ didn't think it looked cool at all, but what did he know? If past experiences proved future ones, he could expect to see some youngsters in his shop sporting this dye-job gone wrong within weeks. “Well. Shoot.”

Crowley stepped forward and swung his arm around Aziraphale in a movement too quick to give Aziraphale any time to react. And suddenly Aziraphale's heart felt like an open book with its pages being rapidly shuffled by the passing wind.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley whispered low into his ear, before throwing a hand over his shoulder and leaving the shop just as unceremoniously as he'd arrived.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, as he touched his fingertips to the lingering warmth on his jaw where he'd sworn Crowley had pressed his lips as he'd pulled away. “You're welcome, I suppose.”


End file.
